Rêvasser
by plaid stockings
Summary: HōtarōChitanda—Her hand is cool against his warm forehead, against his jaw, against the hollow of his ribs.


**A/N:** Written after a re-watch of episode seven. Sometimes, I remember Hōtarō makes those noises and those expressions when confronted with Chitanda's sexuality. Sometimes, I end up writing porn instead of the light-hearted, humorous tension I was aiming for. You win some, you lose some, I guess.

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Chitanda has no sense of personal space. Sometimes, Hōtarō wonders if it has anything to do with the way she was raised, but such thinking is tiring and therefore Hōtarō never really ends up finishing it. The point he'd like to reach at, as quick as he can, is the fact that she will always find a way to wrap her hand around his wrist, or find a way to lie on top of the table, elbows straight as she seeks out his gaze. He already knows by heart, by eye, the way her smile fluffs out her cheeks, narrowing her eyes. The way her fingers feel when she sets them upon his shoulder, cool and pleasant.

Today, though, she has gone past her usual count. First, when he was exiting the bus: her hand on his shoulder blade, soothing and easing. When she leaned in, close, to ask him about Ibara's family. Then, during dinner, when their hands touched on the way for the rice.

The moment after the baths, though, takes the crown, pronouncing itself unbeaten king and queen.

Chitanda is kneeling by his side, asking him if he's alright, in true caretaker fashion, when she decides it's okay for her to put her hand on his cheek. And, ordinarily, Hōtarō couldn't have cared less—but both his skin and his mind are sizzling (one with temperature, the other with pale-skinned thoughts). He's not ready for it when it comes. It being, of course, the rush of warmth that shoots all across him while offering southward directions at the same time.

"You're still hot," she comments, looking a little put down. If he loses focus, he returns to the hot springs, to listening her bare feet, her bare arms, the rest of her splashing hot water on herself. He wonders if that's why he passed out. "Should I get a cold towel for you?"

Her face is so close. He notices her damp, flushed skin first – did she come to check on him straight from the baths? – and her outfit later, the way it folds across collarbones and the shadows of her chest. He can't look away. She's naked, underneath. She's just wearing a robe. She's … He blinks when his eyes begin to prickle.

Chitanda looks concerned as she leans in closer, the bangs of hair she failed to catch drifting across the skin of his cheek and jaw. Her eyes look larger, wider, more piercing, and Hōtarō thinks, in a panic, that she can see right through him. Half a second later, he blames his fever, but what's thought is thought.

"It's fine," he manages, even though his voice nearly breaks, even though the volume of his voice climbs fast like Hōtarō would never be able to. Turning away and curling into a ball, he attempts to think about everything that is not related to Chitanda Eru. His stomach is curling, and he thinks he can feel the slightest of twitches surrounding his inner thighs. He breathes in, and then swallows. It's okay—she's made him exasperate before, and he knows just how to react, usually. Usually, what Chitanda wants is an answer. This time, the one who wants something is Hōtarō.

Wait.

That's. That's not … Right. Is it? He can't be honest; the answer is embarrassing and he really, _really_ doesn't want to analyze what he might or might not want to do when it regards the girl kneeling right next to him. He closes his eyes, listening to her invitation to a session of ghost stories, listening to her get-well sigh, and listening to her footsteps. He begins to breathe out in relief when he notices that even though the door lock has sounded, the door wasn't opened or closed.

He swallows, drowsy eyes fixated on the wall. He feels like he's just woken up, for some reason. Or maybe like he's just fallen asleep. He can't tell – the tension is thick and bars him from thought.

"I'm afraid, Oreki-san, that I haven't been entirely honest with you," Chitanda says, returning to her spot. He wonders how she's managed to walk without making a single sound. The floor creaks under her weight when she leans forward, the palm of her hand flattening against the futon. He can see the wrinkles of the mattress, where her hand sinks. He begins turning, both aghast and surprised, only to find her looking down at him. The crease of her robe hangs low and Hōtarō swallows in dry, feeling the muscles of his abdomen tighten uncomfortably. His hands twitch against the sheet.

"A-Ah?" he chokes out, eyes wide. Chitanda's mouth is parted; she brings in her lower lip before she bites it, indecisive. He finds himself doing the same with his tongue.

"You see, Ibara-san told me they had a mixed bath!" she finally lets out, eyes wide and bright. He blinks, mouth dry (he hadn't realized he'd left his open). Chitanda cocks her head, breath ghosting over his chin. "I wonder why she did such a thing? After all, they have separate baths."

"I—? W-Why should I…" he rasps out. He brings his knees together and tries to think of everything – from his sister's noogies to Ibara's sour disposition to rainy days and sitting at home flipping through the TV – but ends up missing. Chitanda is the biggest target for now, and it's to her his thoughts automatically redirect. Chitanda's other hand, resting on his hip, doesn't allow him to deny the increasingly worrying situation that is going on underneath his bathrobe – and it's such a thin thing, he wonders how she hasn't noticed yet.

"Oreki-san," Chitanda insists, bringing her face even closer (how? He could've sworn she was already as close as she could get, but—). "I am positive that Ibara-san would never lie about such a thing. Then, why? I can't help it – " she breathes in, biting her lower lip once more. _I'm curious,_ he completes.

"You probably just misheard it," he mutters, inching back onto the futon. The fear of accidentally letting his mouth touch Chitanda – any part of her, really – is growing. The anticipation and the wish to do so, too. He wants a glass of water. Or a thousand. With ice cubes. "W-Why would there be mixed baths?"

She sighs, closing her eyes. "I guess Oreki-san is right. That must've been it."

No contesting? This has to be a dream – Hōtarō is absolutely sure now. Chitanda opens her eyes again, inching forward; he can't retreat anymore, not unless he wants to uncurl his legs, and that's not happening any time soon. She's still half-hovering over him, though, her hand slowly sliding to the outside of the futon. Hōtarō breathes in, expectant, and then Chitanda leans in and presses her forehead to his. She's cool, and when she blinks in surprise he can feel her eyelashes on his cheeks. He can feel more than that, too, but if he wastes energy thinking about that he won't be able to wake up in the next month. So, he doesn't.

"Oreki-san," she starts, and then her right leg slides over his curled ones. It parts the robe, slipping out of it, and he's never seen that much leg at once, not even when his sister parades around the house in a towel because she feels entitled to do so. Even if he had, though; this is Chitanda's leg, and it's slim and pale and if she leans it to the left she's going to feel things she shouldn't, things he doesn't want her to feel – or anyone, ever, at least not so soon, okay? _Damn_, where was he going with this? "You're hot."

"Y-You—" he snaps his face back, "Didn't you just check my temperature?"

"… Oreki-san—no, that is: Hōtarō-san," Chitanda Eru says (the girl who firmly and politely always calls him Oreki-san), eyes bright even though there's barely any light left. He wonders if they're like LCD monitors, if they light up by themselves, and then Chitanda's other hand presses against the mattress on the other side of his head. She's pinning him down with her eyes, capturing him between her hands. Hōtarō still can't look up, lest the crease of her robe still be wide and revealing. "I'm still curious, you know."

"I—I've told you," he says, and Chitanda shakes her head, lowering it until she's gone, until all he can see is her shoulder. The fabric has loosened there too, treating him to the shadows of her collarbones. He wonders if she wouldn't like to tie the belt better, afterwards—no, not _afterwards_, he meant _right now. _Right now.

"Not about Ibara-san, this time," she whispers into his ear, and he can't help but to close his eyes and bite hard on his lower lip, can't help the twitching of his fingers as she sighs, can't help the choking noise Chitanda withdraws from his throat when her knee comes closer to his thigh. Hōtarō dimly registers having been curled into a protective ball, but now he's lying on his back, passively watching as Chitanda's hair droops from her back to the front of her shoulders. He doesn't remember moving, and – was it always this dark inside his room? Wasn't the window breathing tangerine, instead of plum?

He can't help himself.

"Who?" he asks, betraying his whole being; he's the Brutus to his low-energy lifestyle, the knife on its back. _Sic semper tyrannis. _Chitanda smiles, shifting closer, and Hōtarō doesn't even care anymore, he just thinks, _how is it possible that you're not touching me yet, with all the moving around you're doing? _He feels her knee wrinkling the end of his bathrobe, feels the fabric move against his skin, feels one of her hands, cool, always cool, touch at his jaw, feather-light.

"That's a mystery for you to figure out, Hōtarō-san," she says, fingers lowering, from his jaw to his collarbones, to the frontier between cloth and skin, where they softly move it aside, like it's nothing. He swallows, hands grasping at the futon beneath him. His toes are curling and he's seventy percent sure he's not the one asking them to do it; he attempts to make them stop and instead creases his legs, bringing his knees up until they press against Chitanda. It's an accident, he tells himself. He didn't do it on purpose, he tells himself. She's soft, he tells himself.

Chitanda listens to a prayer Hōtarō would never admit to thinking about and continues pressing her fingers here and there. She sits up, then, finally casting off the unsaid no-touching rule, and it takes all of his carefully-built discipline (enduring years of his sister's antics has prepared him well, he thinks, glad to have found something his patience is good for) not to press his hands onto her hips. Not to press her down and back, just a few inches, just where he wants her to sit. The thought makes him feel eerie and disgusting and desperate, but Chitanda's hand is still winning the race, slow and steady. Why care about anything else?

She circles his ribs, settling in the curve of his stomach. His hands pull on the futon and she notices.

"Hōtarō-san," she says, a little breathy, "don't take your frustrations out on the futon. It's not its fault."

He inhales very, very slowly, and opens his hands at the same speed. Chitanda's left hand not does leave his stomach, but her right grabs at his right wrist, bringing it up to meet her knee. Her bathrobe is still loose, but it seems to be holding itself pretty well. He doesn't know whether to be disappointed or relieved. Still, he can see the light disappear where the volume of her chest fades roundly—he looks away, quick, ashamed. It's too much at once. His hand is on her knee but he doesn't really know what to do with it—so he doesn't move it. It's warm and soft and he's never been this frightened before.

Ibara is tiny but Chitanda isn't tall, either, and he can't believe he's actually afraid of a girl whose head reaches his nose. But he is.

His fingers twitch and Chitanda makes a breathy noise that captures all the warmth seeping through his skin and fondly places it right on the junction of his thighs. He chokes, momentarily, and then throws his other arm across his face, biting the sleeve. It's all Hōtarō can do not to buck his hips up. He wants to – he's never wanted to _move_, literally move, expend energy, so badly before. But now he does, and it's both scary and exasperating at the same time—but—

Chitanda's hips roll back, half an inch, and he can deduct that even though she is soft her thighs aren't _that_ pliable, which brings him to the nefarious conclusion that it's her butt that's inching closer to his dick and—oh. With a trembling sigh that does terrible things to Hōtarō's mind, Chitanda's hand moves from his stomach to his hipbone, revealed to the air thanks to her other hand, who's spreading his robe apart. He breathes in expectantly, curving his spine without meaning to.

"Hōtarō-san, what is it that you want?"

He'd like to roll his eyes and remark snidely to himself, but the moment, the heat, _Chitanda _doesn't allow him. He bites the sleeve of his robe so hard he hears it tear. _You_, he thinks.

Chitanda seems to use her head for once instead of asking him to finish the puzzle she has brought him. She smiles as she delicately plucks his arm away from his face, inching forward, pressing her mouth against his wrist. He watches, transfixed – and then digs the pads of his fingers into her leg, tight but loose enough to flee, when she kisses his thumb delicately. If Chitanda notices his hand inches higher, crossing the border between knee and thigh illegally, she doesn't comment on it.

She's so soft and warm and – he's always heard his sister bemoan society for female standards and it's such a pain to shave and _ughh, you're lucky, little brother_, but he has to say he's thankful. She feels delicious to the touch. Hōtarō's favorite fruit is apple but he's fond of mangoes, too, and maybe he could practice that eating expertise soon. Now. He licks his bottom lip. Chitanda's left hand has lowered from his wrist to his neck, but for some reason Hōtarō still keeps his hand hovering above his head. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that Chitanda is peppering kisses on his knuckles, on the tips of his fingers. How can something so innocent set so many fires inside him?

The moment he feels something wet dragging across the bone of his wrist, though, a lot of things happen. He curves his hand around her hip, this time dismissing any fleeing opportunities, flexes the muscles of his thighs to buck up, and sucks in air through his teeth. Chitanda makes a tiny, surprised noise, back loosening into an arc. He feels irritated at the thought that she's surprised – this whole situation is her fault, after all – but then lets it dissipate in order to focus on more pressing matters.

She's sitting. She's – sitting. On. On his … He feels his face's temperature climb another set of stairs, and suddenly all his bravado decides to take a trip to somewhere far away. He's never had someone else so close, so _there_, so warm and soft and … And what? He doesn't want to take the first step. In fact, he doesn't want to take any steps. He's never like walking. And Chitanda is a steep, sunny hill in a summer's day. He'll never get to the top if he's not pushed.

Chitanda's face is pink, from one ear to the other, and he likes it, likes seeing her abnormally discomposed. He wonders what kind of faces she's been hiding from him, and then remembers his might not be as normal as usual. He tries to set it back to a mask of dullness but can't, of course he can't.

He brings his free hand to her knee, tremblingly, and sets it there slowly. Once, in grade school, they visited deer, and he thinks this is the same. He feels nervous, but maybe the deer feels nervous too, and he's never going to forgive himself if he scares her away.

"Ch—" he tries, and has to swallow before trying again. "Chitanda, do you … Do you like me?"

She smiles brightly at him before she nods, framing his face with her hands. "Of course I do, Hōtarō-san!" And then she leans in, pressing her mouth against his cheek. He feels his stomach cave in, deep, until it hits the center of the earth. Chitanda leans back, just slightly, and that's when he gives up, using his elbows to help him up. Chitanda squeaks in surprise when he kisses her, cocking his head to the side (because that's what everyone in the movies does). She's soft, which he'd already expected, but also cool. He wonders how – if she's blushing, how is she so fresh? Why does she feel like he's kissing a spring morning when he feels like midday summer?

Chitanda sighs, pulling back slightly to breathe, and the weight of the situation brings him down again. He hits the futon with a subdued groan, closing his eyes again.

"That surprised me," she says. _Yeah, me too,_ he thinks. "May I do it again?"

He thinks, rolling his eyes mentally, that he shouldn't have to answer – he was the first offender, after all. But, after a beat, he ends up nodding anyway, stubbornly keeping his eyes closed. Chitanda's hands press on his shoulders as she lies down on top of him. Hōtarō's hands find their shivering way into her hips, soft and feather-light at first. After Chitanda's lack of complaints, he leaves them there. If he extends his pinky, he'll be able to reach skin, so he doesn't.

Chitanda kisses him slowly, fingers grabbing at the collar of his robe. Hōtarō thinks back to every single romance movie his sister made him watch, and then attempts to kiss her back. He needs to think about second-degree equations to prevent himself from pulling her closer, from following his primal urges and slip his tongue into her mouth. Or her neck. Or—

"Hah," he breathes, pulling back.

"I apologize! Did I do anything wrong?" she asks, looking flushed in the face.

"That's not it," he snaps, and then cringes. His hands tighten around her hips, and Chitanda's reply is straightening, hips rolling against him. Hōtarō's head hits against the mattress, a groan stuck in the middle of his throat.

"Oh!" Chitanda blushes profusely, then, apparently aware of the effect she is having on him. He bites down on his lip, hands flat against her hips. "S—Should I do this once more, Hōtarō-san?"

Like hell is he going to answer. Chitanda takes in his silence, like she's gulping down air, and then her blush multiplies.

"Could I ask you for a favor, Hōtarō-san?" He looks up. "Could I ask for you to kiss me again?"

Hōtarō breathes in, propping himself up with his elbows once more, and then he sits. Slowly, like he's afraid to break the moment, he brings his arms around her waist; his hands are shaking, still. Chitanda closes her eyes and purses her lips, just slightly, and he leans in. Her arms snake around his neck, gently, but it's when she inches forward, pressing against him, that Hōtarō tightens his hold on her.

It's Chitanda who opens her mouth first, after Hōtarō's arms crisscross behind her back. He replies as slowly as he can – it's his first time doing this, and it's probably hers, too, so why bother with an even larger energy waste? It would be a lie to say he doesn't want to, kind of, maybe – ahh, he doesn't know. She moans into his mouth, then, a tiny, barely-there sound. That's the fire to the fuel; Hōtarō grinds with a sharp, accidental tug. A muffled, quiet moan echoes into his mouth and around his empty skull.

Chitanda breathes. Hōtarō breathes.

He tries doing it again, this time slower.

Chitanda gasps into the kiss, but immediately replies with a soft movement of her own hips, and Hotaro doesn't know what he's feeling anymore. No, that would be a lie - he knows, but it seems so cheap to describe what the friction between them feels like. It burns, tearing through his skin and mind, until all he can do is press more, kiss harder. Chitanda, he knows, looks so girly, so frail, and he's righteously scared to move further, but she keeps up with him effortlessly.

Well. Maybe not effortlessly. He'd be lying (badly) if he were to say everything comes easy and natural to him, but somehow they seem to make it work.

Her trembling fingers run through his hair, and he catches the red hue of her ears when she moves back to catch her breath—that's when he opens his mouth to ask, is this alright, but she cuts him off with another kiss. He bucks up into her and thanks all deities the human being has prayed to when she rolls herself against him. He can feel her breasts pressed up against his uncovered chest, and even though her robe has held onto her figure, he wants nothing more than to slide it off her and—and what? He huffs, moving his mouth away, and then requests a time-out, wordlessly pulling his hands out of her hips and anchoring them to the futon.

Chitanda is bottomless energy. She slides his robe all the way down to his waist, watching it pool around his wrists and navel, and then very, very slowly puts a curious finger on the knot. Hōtarō feels very tiny, but he only watches helplessly as she glances up at his face - looking for a reason to stop? - and then back down again. She grabs at one of the ends, pulling on it with tortuous ease and grace, until the knot on his robe ends undone. He swallows. Chitanda swallows, chin hiked for a second before she redirects her attentions to his outfit.

He wonders how it hasn't fallen to the side, revealing all there is to reveal, but he can't say he doesn't feel more sheltered like this. He tells himself, you can still stop, it would be easy to grab her wrist and end this—ah, he retorts, but it would be easier still to grab her wrist and pull it down. He blinks; he doesn't know where these lascivious thoughts are coming from. Has he always been this perverted? He's always been conscious of Chitanda's lack of space boundaries, and how naive she is regarding the male gaze, but this is nothing but an all time low.

"Hōtarō-san," she says, tracing a line down his quivering stomach. He wonders how she can still talk without her voice breaking. She leans in, presses a kiss against his jaw, and then down, passing by his Adam's apple and halting on his collarbones. He bucks up without meaning to. "I'm sorry to say I might need some guidance regarding this."

He'll give her all the guidance she needs and then some.

"… Should I …?" she asks, nibbling on his ear.

"Please." The last time he sounded this raspy was when he was home with a nasty flu. This alternative is better.

"Very well. Please excuse me."

His first thought is: her hands are so cool. His second thought, or any others after that, do not exist (though if they did, they would probably just be paranoid reflections on how unfitting he must look, or, what am I doing, or, does it look weird, or, is my dick not big enough, or …). He returns to grabbing at the futon, head empty of anything that isn't related to Chitanda or her hands. It's much better than when he does it himself—probably because he's always faced masturbation as being a chore that only succeeds in getting him emotionally and physically tired. She's slow, careful, but it's the best Hōtarō has ever felt before.

He bucks up and she murmurs a little "oh", bringing one hand to cover her mouth. He doesn't need to look down to know his dick is probably sticky and wet, but he hasn't come yet and it's driving him crazy. Dimly, in the back of his muddled mind, he wonders how much time has passed, and if Satoshi is going to return soon, or why hasn't Ibara tore the door down looking for Chii-chan yet? But those, along with any other questions he might have, are secondary, because he hasn't come yet.

"Could you—faster—" he says, closing his eyes to try and pretend she's not looking at his face at the same time she's making it twist and redden. Chitanda murmurs something affirmative under her breath, like she's answering a teacher during a very quiet class, and then accelerates. He sees stars, dancing in the darkness of his eyelids.

His elbows decide to malfunction, and his back hits the futon at the same time his toes curl, and he's hissing out her name, her first name—

* * *

Hōtarō wakes up with a flushed face and a stuttering breath, eyes wide and confused as they stare up at the ceiling. When he sits up to look outside, he notices the sun is still setting. With a slow, expectant frown, he notices the sleeve of his robe isn't ripped.

"Ah," he lets out, running an embarrassed hand down his face and hiding beneath the covers once more.


End file.
